


Plagued Chase

by On_Sonnshine



Category: The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996)
Genre: Gen, Manipulation, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Past Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 12:28:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18638134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/On_Sonnshine/pseuds/On_Sonnshine
Summary: The salvation of many often requires the sacrifice of some- or, the sacrifice of one.





	Plagued Chase

Seduction must run in the family, they joke grimly amongst themselves later the night after Clopin comes home limping at age 17, throwing his head back and laughing hysterically, tears on his lashes as he tells Esmeralda that Frollo had finally snapped- ‘the old bat grabbed me by the cape of all things!’.  
  
Despite his jovial nature, a gentle touch to his shoulder broke him down, and he sobbed and screamed, collapsing to the floor in a shivering heap. That night, the shrill noise of anguished cries could be heard all across Paris, by the poor, the scoundrels, and the unburdened alike.  
  
Frollo had taken, and desperately, maliciously, but desirelessly grasped for other women and men among the Court of Miracles to no avail, his eyes wandering, but only for the King, they soon realized. Clopin kept distance, only getting close in the midst of festivity, face burning and fingers tingling at the lustful, and yet disgusted, side-long glances to his lips or ass.  
  
What to do with the information, however, evaded them, until one of the many holidays that required Frollo to enter the public eye- out and about for extended moments, but too public by far to _do_ something.  
  
One of the young women of the court danced by Frollo, barely 19, earning a sharp step back, and Clopin felt his entire body stiffen and his breath catch in his throat, heart sinking at the sight of Frollo side-eyeing her- no, _ogling_ her where she'd been drawn into dance by another woman, practically leering at the both of them in that way that haunts Clopin's nightmares.  
  
Clopin tried to tear his away, but couldn't, wasn't fast enough to avoid the almost cartoonish lick of Frollo's lips.  
  
He barely made it into a side-alley before heaving and emptying the contents of his stomach, entire body burning from the tips of his toes to his temple as he braced himself against the wall.  
  
Unfortunately for him, Esmeralda had seen it too.  
  
The Feast of Fools rolls about, 1529, and a plan has already been laid between the two bloods, though it was tenuous- Esmeralda didn't like a single bit of Clopin's role, revolting at it and demanding to know what he was thinking. For one, it wasn't certain, none of it- it depended on certain events happening in the correct order in the correct way, and if even one second was off, one or both of them were headed to the guillotines.  
  
But what Must be done is not always the most pleasant.  
  
Esmeralda draws Frollo’s attention- she dances, but for one man alone, getting close enough to let him smell her perfume, leaving her scarf to plant the seed, and Clopin stares on, mouth dry and muscles all across his body twitching.  
  
The King has a vicious panic attack when days later, Esmeralda arrives back at the Court with hushed word of what Frollo had done to her, shivering as she recounts just the way he smiled at her, teeth gleaming and eyes reassured, _relaxed_ in the knowledge he’d have her.  
  
But at her demand, the plan rolls on.  
  
Esmeralda teases and taunts and evades him loosely, letting him see and get _just_ close enough to touch, and yet, not nearly enough- and then, once his resolve has weakened, she leaves Djali in the care of one of the ladies of the Court, and sets out with her cloaked brother at midnight. It doesn’t take long.  
  
They’re already in position of an amorous couple, frantic hands moving to disrobe, when horse hooves click down the cobblestone.  
  
Frollo shouts and snarls, and Esmeralda throws back her hair, meeting his eye. She winks, grins, licks her lips, her shirts strings undone, falling off one shoulder, skirt hitched up her thighs, hair tousled and lips swollen and red.  
  
And then she runs, Clopin already loose from the men’s grasp and down an alley, nimble and knowledgeable of the path he’s taking, faster than the horses could dream.  
  
It doesn’t matter anyways- Frollo demands they stay behind, hissing that the gypsy girl is his and his _alone._  
  
The game is on.  
  
She gives chase her best, slowing when she sees the horse tiring- she knows these streets too well to get cornered, but he doesn’t know that, and she screams, falling to the ground and scrabbling against the wall as he ‘catches’ her, long legs falling open in a manner seductive were it not for the tears on her face.  
  
Esmeralda doesn’t really see him get off his horse, all she knows is one second she’s on the ground, snapping and snarling at him, poking and prodding, and the next, she’s pinned to the wall, one hand wrestling her hands above her head and the other gripping her jaw, forcing her head forward so he can catch her eye.  
  
‘Caught you, rodent.’ He croons into her ear.  
  
She breathes through the urge to panic, and squirms, spitting and hissing, ‘unawares’ to just how she was wriggling against Frollo’s more sensitive regions- he growls, suddenly serious, and he forces her in harder against the wall.  
  
‘Now, my little gypsy, tell me. I’m not a cruel man- a cold, lonely jail-cell? Or _me?_ Or even, perhaps, hanging in town-square for all to see _exactly_ what happens to unobedient little _scoundrels_ like yourself.’  
  
Esmeralda snarls, jutting her hips forward with a hissed retaliation that she doesn’t make much sense of- all she knows is that she can hear him hiss out a moan through curses, teeth brushing her skin as he deeply inhales at her neck.  
  
She leans her head to the side, going lax, chest heaving.  
  
_This_ was her side of the game.  
  
Frollo’s hands wander down to her thigh, and he clicks his tongue, ‘I knew you were a _**gypsy**_ , but I didn’t know you were a _filthy_ _**whore**_ as well-’ Frollo climbs a hand beneath her skirt, and she bucks, but he interprets it rather differently, tutting, digging her wrists harder into the wall, pressing himself harder upon her.  
  
He’s hissing about how she was sent by God, a test, a devil’s minion, contradicting himself left and right, and it’s only when he edges onto her inner thigh, pressing in to the point that she can barely breathe and she can feel his arousal against her bare thigh, that she tenses beneath him.  
  
She grabs his wrists hard, twisting back and earning a loud cry- she ducks out under his arm, and he stumbles back.  
  
She’s gone in haste, followed by snarls and howls and hoarse screams to his men to follow her, but she’s already gone, nearly giggling to herself out of adrenaline, ignoring the sickly sensation in the pit of her stomach. Whether from what had happened, or the knowledge of what Clopin, her beloved family and best friend, had to do.  
  
She meets Clopin to regroup, and the plan is in motion once more a mere 15 minutes later.  
  
He tails Frollo, sizing up his frustration. All it takes is him bounding down the street, bells jingling.  
  
By the time Frollo catches him, he’s resigned himself to his side of the game.  
  
It’s easy. All he has to do is push his hips back against Frollo from where he’s pinned to the brick alley wall- _sharp, bony hips, unmistakable hardness_ \- give a few words of protest and struggle, insistently wriggling against Frollo, and he’s gone. He knows he has him when Frollo struggles him to the ground- _why why why why_ -, pinning his hands to his back with a knee briefly before ripping off his belt, using it to bind his wrists.  
  
_Cold, cold, bony fingers, long and thin and precise, manipulating his body-_  
  
He keeps up the struggle, trying not to listen to Frollo’s hisses of him not learning his lesson years ago, and when Frollo pushes into him, gripping the back of his neck, he gives Frollo something he did not years ago- he sobs. He weeps beneath him, begging both for mercy and biting back moans with clenched teeth. A part of the game.  
  
_Zaps of pleasure that make him struggle harder and howl, a deep voice in his ear, hot breath on his neck, bony hips, cold hands, deep voice-_  
  
Lure, and capture.  
  
Frollo finishes fast, and he doesn’t bother untying Clopin’s wrists, straightening himself up and sweeping away, stoic, head low, shame on his face. Whether for Clopin being a gypsy, or male, or both, Clopin did not care, and did not know.  
  
_Burning, throbbing, stinging pain deep in him, vomit choking in his throat, release coiling in his stomach-_  
  
But he saw it.  
  
Frollo’s longing glance back at him just before he turned the corner.  
  
_They had won the game._  
  
He struggles to his feet, cutting his belt on a fence post and redressing himself, limping his way back to The Court of Miracles, weeping to himself and only wiping away the tears once he arrived. He did not want Esmeralda seeing how he was affected.  
  
It’s smooth sailing from there.  
  
Esmeralda doesn’t even have to be involved at that point- Clopin only has to intercept Frollo’s path, give shorter and shorter chase each time, let loose more moans each time, relent faster and faster, until it’s regular, until one day, Clopin would begin to seek out Frollo, worm his way into every bit of Frollo’s life until he was on his arm.  
  
And then, once he had friction between them, once he had give, he would begin to turn things in the progressive direction, make Frollo believe it was all his idea, give those in his Court the freedom and safety he earned only through trauma and blackmail.  
  
It would take years of work, but for the lost lives of his comrades, for the suffering of Romanian children held at sword-point, for the raids of their old hideouts, for his comrades who died young due to nothing but the colour of their skin, for the women of his people taken forcefully by bored guards, by those falsely imprisoned- he is more than willing to dig his grave in their name.


End file.
